Page 22 of Playing for Keeps

EMERSON

I am having somuch fun—actual fun, complete with jumping and yelling. Is this how other people just go about their lives this way? I can hardly believe how much I like this family.

Gunnar’s parents wait with me until he and the twins emerge from the locker room, dressed in jeans and T-shirts for our planned outing to what Gunnar calls a “chill bar” in a neighborhood called The Strip District. The name gives me pause, but my husband assures me it’s not called that for clubs and pole dancing, but rather the steel strip mills that used to operate there.

The door to the locker room opens, and a mass of giant men emerges, many stopping to shake hands with Gunnar’s dad on their way past us. I’m no stranger to having a famous father in my same professional field. But when I see Gunnar approaching, he doesn’t look anxious or upset by his father greeting his teammates the way I would with mine.

Gunnar barely seems to notice at all, in fact. Gunnar locks his blue gaze on me, and … I feel a pinch and tingle between my legs. I spent the day today doing research, hoping to get some time alone with him later to repay all the pleasure he gave me. A muscle in Gunnar’s jaw moves as he swallows, and he walksright up to me, past his parents, dipping to kiss me on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he whispers, his smile illuminating his entire face.

I bring a hand to my cheek, where I can still feel remnants of the black and gold face paint I recently washed off in the bathroom. I took off the turtleneck and borrowed ski cap, so I’m just wearing a jersey and jeans with my hair in pigtails. A casual look I would never, ever have considered in public before today. It’s one thing with this group, at the arena, where pretty much everyone is dressed this way. I’m still anxious about going out into the bar with Gunnar, where I know there will be fans with phones and photos.

But I forget to worry about all that when he tucks me against his side and his brothers announce that Ty and Juniper will drop us at the brewery the team rented out tonight for players, friends, and family. Ty grins as he steers us toward the ancient minivan, and Gunnar rolls his eyes. “Dad, you couldn’t bring Mom’s car?”

Gunnar opens the sliding door for me as Ty points out, “If I had, you and your brothers wouldn’t all fit, now would you? Emerson, you sit behind Juniper. The twins will do just fine in the third row.”

Alder and Tucker groan, climbing up and over the seats and cramming themselves in the back of the vehicle. I bite my lip and stamp down the guilt I feel at taking a spacious captain’s chair while the massive hockey players are so cramped. But the trio of brothers is soon joking with their parents about the game, so I try to accept that they’d tell me if it was actually a problem.

Juniper turns in her seat. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Ty brings the van to a halt and puts on his blinker, in line to drop us at the door. “Ready for what?”

Alder laughs. “Oh, three hundred or so rabid hockey fans. Hey! Tuck, did you say the women’s teams are here, too?”

Tucker grunts an affirmative sound, and my eyes widen. “I didn’t realize it would be so big.”

Gunnar leaps out of the van on the driver’s side and rushes around, offering me a hand. “It will feel small, I promise. We’ll set you up in the corner near the nice PAWs.”

“Paws?”

Tucker claps a massive hand on my shoulder, meeting my eye. “Partners and Wives. They’ll take care of you, even if you did shun them up in the box tonight.”

“Shun?” Had I already made a faux pas in this arrangement? I thought I did everything Gunnar said I should.

I feel mildly better when he elbows his brother in the ribs, making Tucker double over. “Don’t be like that, fucker.” He turns to me. “Em, nobody cares that you sat with my family. I promise they’ll love you. Let’s go inside.”

Our entrée into the building is so vastly different from a post-concert cocktail party that I really am not sure how to walk, where to look, or what to do with any of my body parts. Ever since the tabloid article yesterday and messages from my parents, I’ve been on edge, despite the dopamine injection from orgasms with Gunnar. I’m glad when he laces his fingers among mine, clasping my hand and tugging me forward. His voice booms above the rock music on the sound system as he says, “Cam, Essence, meet my wife, Emerson.”

A white man and a Black woman wearing Fury jerseys turn and smile at me, and the man throws his hands in the air. “Finally! We see her! Essence, she’s more beautiful in person, isn’t she?”

Essence nods. “We read all this crap online and saw all those out of context photos.” I’m not even sure what images she might be referring to, but I wince all the same. Whatever it was will just add fuel to my parents’ outrage. What will it look like if they start responding? Retaliating?

I remind myself that I’m secure right now. I have what I need.

I smile at my new companions. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, too. I’m new to all of this.” I gesture around.

Cam nods and looks at Gunnar. “Well don’t be a douchebag, Gun. Get her a beer. We’re having the autumn ale.” Cam smiles at me. “I promise it’s good. Come sit!”

He and Essence gesture toward a wooden bench at one of the long tables in the back of the pub, which is spacious, featuring two long bars, hustling wait staff carrying trays of food, and throngs of excited people in Fury gear, as well as a large group of women in hockey jerseys, whom I assume are the women I watched play earlier. I smile and accept the drink Gunnar offers, reminding myself to muster the nerve to approach them and tell them how much I enjoyed watching their game.

Cam is dating a Fury player named Banksy, while Essence is married to the captain, who seems to be named Cappy. Beyond us, only a few of the current players have partners. Essence rolls her eyes and explains, “The team is in a rebuilding phase, which means the guys are young … which means they’re a bunch of promiscuous sex fiends.” As she talks, I notice some of the players getting friendly with women approaching them for autographs. Judging by the body language I’m seeing, the sex fiends will be happy.

Cam leans his elbows on the table and asks, “So do you know anything about hockey?”

I shake my head. “Today, I learned what a puck is.” I laugh nervously at first, then more freely when Essence and Cam chuckle knowingly.

Cam tells me he started dating Banksy about a year ago. “Banksy is my first athlete,” Cam says, clutching his chest. “But I’m still a theatre brat at heart.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “I’m a symphony brat. So, sort of similar.”

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